When that happened I returned to San Francisco. Sitting on the edge of the bed with my father, we watched as Nixon resgined. I felt terrible for my father since he, like so many others, had stood by Nixon, believing him through the endless series of lies. Dad had voted for him, supported him, railed against all who would speak against him, citing “hard political realities” and saying how Kennedy, Johnson, even Roosevelt had been as bad or worse. But I judged Nixon, through his paranoia and arrogance to have dragged the country my father loved (and my uncle died for) through the mud, until the once unquestionable virtue of loyalty to the president became meaningless because the president appeared to hold the American system of government in contempt. What a thing it must have been to accept, for all his life my father had believed in America. I don’t think Richard Nixon’s name ever came up again. FROM AN AMERICAN STORY
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